


Edge

by Rhanon_Brodie



Category: American Actor RPF
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bathrooms, Blood, F/M, Facial Shaving, Masturbation, POV First Person, Shaving, Stream of Consciousness, big dick porn, but not pubic hair shaving, either reedus or flanery but not both in this instance, shaving cream, they do it on the toilet but the lid is closed, what is it with me and RPF and bathrooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhanon_Brodie/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s allowed me to hold a razor to his throat, and all my preconceived notions about his need to be in control all the time were thrown out the window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nmbr1Fanilow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nmbr1Fanilow/gifts).



> All recognizeable elements herein are the property of their respective owners. The remaining content is mine. Un beta'd, written off the cuff and posted without any of my peers knowing. Sometimes I'm sneaky like that.

“Hold still,” I mutter before biting my tongue in concentration. I focus on the swath of white before me, and my fingers flex on the stainless steel in my hand.

He’s allowed me to hold a razor to his throat, and all my preconceived notions about his need to be in control all the time were thrown out the window.

But he still huffs and wiggles beneath my careful hand, and I’m afraid I’ll cut him.

“I have an itch,” he explains with a sigh.

“Where,” I murmur, pulling the blade along his jaw and pausing to lean and rinse the head in the sink.

He moves in his perch on the toilet where I’ve caged him, and he reaches up to scratch absently at his shoulder. His eyes don’t meet mine; rather, they remain fixed between my thighs, where I’m naked, where he fucked me only a few hours prior to this grooming. “Can I do you next?”

He’s not talking about my legs. One of said limbs is bent up next to his head, painted toes gripping the tank of the toilet, while I sit on a raised stool before him. If I didn’t have a blade pressed at his jugular, and his face wasn’t full of foam, I might lean back and order him to fuck me with his tongue.

Alas, I’ve got work to do.

“Maybe,” I mutter in reply to his earlier question. I tilt my head and ask, “Are you done moving now?”

He wiggles again, and this time his hand presses against the towel swathed round his hips, and he does nothing to hide the way his cock has stiffened to tent the cotton. If anything, he grabs his length, towel and all, and squeezes a few times, lazily stroking and hissing.

“I don’t want to cut you,” I point out, scraping another path of skin clean from shaving cream and whiskers.

“But you always kiss it and make it better,” he points out with a sneer.

“Shh,” I hiss, rinsing the blade again.

“You look good like this,” he murmurs quietly.

His confession makes my breasts turn heavy where they swing forward as I lean, and I feel a tremble of warmth and wetness slowly wander down my naked sex until it pools beneath my ass. I shiver. The blade wavers along his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and I freeze, watching as a line of red appears and bleeds into the white.

“Shit,” I mutter, frowning as I pull back. “Now you’re cut.”

“To the quick, baby. It’s nothing new. I like the sting.” He reaches for my left hand where it clutches the razor, and he pulls it back to his throat. “Don’t stop on account of a little blood. It’s never stopped me before.” This time, his eyes find mine, and he holds my gaze steady as I hold the blade to his lifeline.

With a resigned sigh, I sit back very slightly and glide my fingers through the front of his thick hair. I clutch it in my fist, making him wince and then grunt, and I push his head back until it comes in contact with the wall. His neck arches beautifully, as if waiting for the slaughter. Slowly, I draw the blade up his throat once more.

He doesn’t dare move again. But I can almost feel his eagerness, his need to turn the tables on me, to show me that even though he is vulnerable, he is in control. But I’ve got the blade at his skin, and his breath turns short and panting. My eyes flick down to see that he’s slipped a hand beneath his towel, and though the movement is scarce, it is still there.

“Show me,” I demand, tightening my grip. “Show me just how badly you need to touch yourself that you would risk me cutting you.”

He licks his lips and pulls the towel aside, before his fingertips return to stroking all over the head of his cock, swollen, red, and glistening.

It’s one of my favourite sights when he’s naked and taking himself in hand. Then I get to see how hard he likes it, or in this case, how gentle he can take it. A whimper leaves his throat, turning into a groan as his eyes slip shut and my hand tightens in his hair, shoving his head back with another dull thud.

He inhales sharply, teeth tugging at his lip, and his fingers search lower, stroking the sides of his length, skimming over his balls, squeezing at the base, all gentle, minimal movements. His eyes open, barely slits from the angle of his head, and despite the submissive position he is in, he tells me with that one look that he wants me, and he’ll have me, no matter how badly he is cut.

The razor is tossed aside with a clatter.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, already pushing against the fist in his hair to draw his slick fingertips along my nipples where they are tingling, pointed at him, filled with blood and heat. On the edge of the closed toilet he perches, and tips his head up to suck each peak in turn. His tongue rolls languidly, his teeth nip playfully, and with every tug of his mouth, I become wetter.

“Right here,” he urges in a hot whisper, his hands already on my hips. He drags me effortlessly from my stool, pulling me to his lap, and he searches between my thighs with one hand, gliding over slick, swollen flesh that still trembles with his earlier attentions.

I sigh and moan, rocking my hips with his fingers, and he stops touching me only to grip his cock in his hand and slide it against me, down to where I’m clenching for him, pushing barely inside, then out, and up, to tap lewdly against my clit. The sound of wet flesh slapping makes my cheeks burn, and he clicks his tongue at my apparent bashfulness. “That pussy,” he sighs, pushing back inside, pulling out another surge of wetness, another high wail, “is so fucking wet, isn’t it?”

I nod, and he nods too, gliding the head of his cock back and forth.

His free hand gathers mine, ignoring where I still tug his hair, and he laces our fingers together before wrapping them around his cock and making us both fist him roughly. “You’ve got my dick all hard for you,” he rasps. He arches up and lands a fleeting, wet, open mouthed kiss on my lips, and savours the hoarse cry that he wrenches from me. I taste his lips, the coffee from breakfast, and the menthol tang of shaving cream.

Still, I chase after him. My mouth finds his, and he lets me be above him as I take him in. He’s there to guide me, to push me, to fill me until we’re pressed together, stilling with the moment as we adjust once more. His fingers flex on my hips even as his began a slow ebb and flow. And though I’ve got him pinned by his hair, he slings an arm behind my hips and slides me down further, now to the point where it hurts and I know he’s going to make me bleed.

Eye for an eye, and all that.

I don’t care. I can’t care, not with his thickness in me, taking up everything and more. My toes find purchase on the cold tile at our feet, and I push up and he lets me go. I come back down, hard, jarring, and he does not pause to see if I’m all right, even as my startled squeal echoes on porcelain and ceramic. He merely urges me on. “That’s right,” he starts, sliding a hand low over my belly, pressing his palm against me and arching his hips up and back towards him. My eyes cross, and a warbled grunt leaves me.

“C’mon, baby, fuck me,” he breathes, leaning back against the tank so he can watch where I’m split open around him, greedily taking him in, sliding off with wetness tinged in pink.

I call his name, making him smile tightly and press his head into the hand that fists his hair. He doesn’t shut up; I don’t think he quite knows how, and he serves to spur me on. Over and over he chants ‘yes, baby, fuck yourself on that dick. You made it so hard, now fuck it. All the way in. Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.’

The pleasure is sob-worthy, making me shake with every dip of my hips and sway of my spine. It’s only when I feel him shift me in his lap, the hand at my back gathering my wrists and pinning them to my tailbone, do I realize that I’m no longer snaring his hair. When his other hand wraps firmly about my throat, I fear nothing but not reaching that pinnacle with him, and I concentrate on him, his body – taut, hard-muscled, golden, sweating – and his cock, and work myself frantically to summit.

The hand at my throat moves to my nape, and he jerks me closer to him with a grunt. He looks at me with awe as I begin to slowly disintegrate, and still he urges me, muttering dirty, sweet words and dragging me with him. “With me,” he decides, throwing his hips faster. His tongue touches mine again, deep and satisfying, and it is quite the sensation to be filled with such thick muscles, top and tail. He gasps in my mouth and holds me tighter against him, pulling at my wrists to arch my back and thrust my breasts against him. His belly flutters where it presses into me. Beneath mine, his thighs tremble.

“Yes,” I whisper just as hotly, nodding, kissing him over and over. His hand on my wrists falters, and as I slide back down onto him, putting him deeper than he’s ever been, I gasp, and tears fill my eyes with pain and pleasure and something that makes me feel open and hollow and filled to bursting.

The corners of his blue-green eyes crease as he smiles, all boy and apple pie, and he swallows thickly before settling his mouth against mine. His eyes are still open, and so are mine, and I hear his next words, feel them float on my mouth and my soul: “I love you.”

My orgasm is like a freight train barrelling down my spine and I sink to stillness, holding him deep inside with my body, as my hands land on his face. Breath catches in my throat, and everything is golden and humming for endless seconds and hours. He surges, and holds fast to me as I tremble, and he comes hot, and hard, and beautifully.

I’m still shaking as the world floats back around us, and below me he jerks as his muscles unclench and his feet work against the floor. I hear him hum, long and warm, and I lazily lift my head from where it has fallen to his shoulder. My nails have dug into his back. The side of his face that I didn’t get to is smeared with shaving cream; the remnants are rubbed into my breasts and my neck. He is warm and solid, blood slowly returning to normal, and one by one his fingertips walk up and down my spine. He blinks pointedly.

I smile and duck my head, and then steal a quick peek, finding him still fascinated by the flush in my cheeks and my pupils blown wide. Rubbing my thighs with his hands, he leans back against the tank and stretches one long arm out, muscles bunching and flexing. He retrieves the razor from where I pitched it into the sink, and he rinses, swishing the head through the warm water. Holding it up to me, his smile is soft and lazy, and his body relaxes.

“Still have the other side, baby,” he smirks. His hand smoothes back over my hip and smacks me once, the sound sharp, making his grin turn wolfish. “Better get to it.”

My muscles flutter around him where he’s spent and he groans and shifts, much to my chagrin. Leaning down, I kiss the tip of his nose and slide my fingers into his hair once more, pushing his head against the wall to steady him.

“Hold still,” I mutter, pressing the razor up along his throat again.

He chuckles beneath my blade. “Make me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a random stock pic of a woman shaving her man's face, and some texting between me and Nmbr1Fanilow. I've written Reedus RPF but never Flanery RPF. I guess really, as I don't name names, you can make him anyone you want. But I had Flanery in mind the whole time.


End file.
